


Better Living Through Domesticity

by cereal



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-26
Updated: 2013-10-26
Packaged: 2017-12-30 13:13:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1019025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cereal/pseuds/cereal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And there, between their palms, is a first. The first time, it's not just her sweat-slicked hand dampening their grip. It's his hand, too. Warm and wet and (part) human.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was initially my first foray into Doctor Who fic, and I -- like a lot of people -- tore through that series like a woman possessed, so a few things got jumbled in my head, namely, there's a mention of Mickey in Pete's World post-JE. It has virtually no bearing on the story, but I'm aware of it.

The thing about traveling with all of time and space at her disposal is that Rose never had to do the same thing twice.

It was a life of firsts.

The first time she watched Columbus ask for money for a voyage across an ocean.

The first time she saw David Beckham kick a football, all childish grace and floppy blond hair, skinned knees and a too-big jumper.

The first time an alien hugged her, squeezing so hard her back popped, because he was just so happy she was alive.

The thing about settling down with a man whose whole life was built around having all of time and space at his disposal is that the firsts become so quiet, so slight, that she can't decide if it's worth it to note them at all.

(The thing about being human though, is that she _does_.)

&&.

On a zeppelin silently cutting its way through the clouds of a world that is not Rose's, and not the Doctor's, but is for now, at least, they hold hands.

This gesture, this tiny physical connection, is not a first, not with the Doctor, not even with this new, old, Doctor. She can still hear the way the sound of the TARDIS leaving slipped through the noise of the water crashing, over the noise of the blood in her ears -- but there's a new element, a little first knitted together within the clasp of body parts.

Their fingers are twined together. Normal Doctor/Rose hand-holding protocol dictates that their fingers go around, cupping and folded over. But they'd sat next to each other on the ship, facing a window, and then his hand was resting on her thigh, just barely touching, but with such a weight restrained behind it.

There was so much pressure sparking from his fingertips that she'd taken his hand just so she didn't have to watch it shake, almost hovering over the fabric of her trousers.

She'd laced their fingers together and rested them back down on her thigh.

"It'll be fine," Rose says, eyes fixed on some point beyond the window. Another zeppelin, maybe. She isn't concentrating.

Are these the first words she's spoken to him since the beach? She couldn't say.

He turns his head to look at her, she can see out of the corner of her eye, but he keeps his shoulders squared straight.

"Of course," he says.

And there, between their palms, is a first. The first time it's not just her sweat-slicked hand dampening their grip. It's his hand, too. Warm and wet and (part) human.

Things are easier to hold on to when they're dry, but as the ship begins its descent, Rose remembers she likes a challenge.

&&.

She's not going to live on a fucking _manor_. She was never going to live on a manor. That Jackie Tyler lives on a manor is confusing enough -- the image of her mother descending grand staircases in palatial homes, a constant reminder that this isn't their world. Not their real one.

So Rose had found a flat, a cozy little thing like she'd have rented at home, and she'd set about forcing it to be -- home, that is.

There are posters on the walls, pictures in frame, each precisely level. There are candles and knick-knacks and meticulously stocked shelves of food.

There is -- absolutely no heart.

Rose fits the key into the lock of her home and the Doctor shifts his weight behind her.

"This all right?" He says, and she can tell he's gestured at the door, at the space behind it and his intrusion on it.

"Why wouldn't it be?" She twists the doorknob and shoulders the door open, a little grunt as it sticks.

"Maybe you're used to living alone now." The Doctor's voice sounds normal, conversational even, and she's taken aback. If this is a game, this pretending it's not weird, not totally nuts, he's surely winning.

Rose hates to lose though.

"Eh," she shrugs. "Could use a man around, to do manly things. Like fix that bloody door, for one."

His hand goes to his jacket and then falls quickly. No sonic in there, not anymore.

Her heart flips and settles in her knees.

Rose offers to make something to eat, offers to let him be in charge of the telly, offers to buy him the best goddamn telescope in the whole (alternate) world, but he goes to bed.

"Human dreams, that'll be new!" And he's down the hallway, pointing a finger at the door of the spare room, a question in his eyes. She nods and he ducks inside.

&&.

It's been two cups of tea since the Doctor went to bed and Rose has flipped over the handful of words they've said to each other, this new man and her, a million times.

He loves her on the beach, he's quiet on the ship, he's enthusiastic in her flat.

What she really decides is: he's pretending.

The only thing she can pick up from any of their interactions is a current of restraint. He's holding something back. His anger at his other self. His anger at her. His sanity slowly cracking. _Something_.

And all of the sudden her temper swells.

She's pretty properly fucked here, too. No need to dance on eggshells around it. They can talk about this like grown ups.

Is he the man she loves? Is she worth being tied to a planet for? What are they going to do when they get _old_?

&&.

When he was gone, and she was stuck here, she wore a watch every day. Hung clocks in every room in her house. She thought about getting one tattooed on the smooth, pale skin on the inside of her forearm, but the fit Jackie would've thrown wasn't worth it.

Still, she'd forced order, forced reminders of linear time everywhere she could. Dedicated her life to saying 'Fuck you' to the Doctor. Fuck you for not finding a way around this. Fuck you for making me do all the work.

Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.

She'd told him in home decor, wrist accessories, and, on days she felt fancy (or masochistic), a fob watch. She opened it and opened it, hoping for her life to fall out.

Time is everywhere, it is controlled and it is unwavering and she just hates him so fucking much.

She's standing in Tesco one night and she thinks, dumbly holding a sack of potatoes, that who she's really mad at, is herself.

She watches a little boy get his foot run over by a trolley and he screams, drops to his knees, rages at the wheels, and then stops to yell at his foot for hurting, too.

And there it is -- that what she's really mad about is that she will die and her flesh will become dirt (tattoo would have done, too) and he'll still be out there.

The watch she was wearing that day was some cheap thing. She'd gotten it for 20 quid at a shop down the way, but it normally kept time better than some of the ones she splurged on with Pete's money.

Even so, the battery was dying, hands getting stopped up, and it was cold on her wrist the whole way home. She'd taken it off that night, crushed it under her heel.

She'd look up when she was done, checking, and hoping. But the watch had died and time had continued.

(Because you can't stop time, and you can't bend it to your will.)

When the (new) Doctor wakes up the next morning, he walks in to see her in the kitchen, just his boxers on, clutching the clock from the wall in his room.

He extends his arm, fingers wrapped around the cheap plastic of the frame, "This can't be right, can it?"

&&.

Rose has triple-checked every clock in the house by the time he gets done showering. They're all telling perfect time.

(They're all wrong.)

When he joins her back in the kitchen, he's redressed in his blue suit and his hair is just the slightest bit off, feathered and light.

"What's with --" She gestures at the top of his head.

He rolls his eyes up, like he's trying to see, and she laughs before she means to.

"A cupboard full of hair grooming products and not one thing of wax."

"We'll buy you some today, we've got to go out anyway. You can't wear that suit for the rest of your life."

She does not think about how he only has one life now. She does not think about how he's spending it with her.

&&.

The interesting thing about this new Doctor, about this Doctor who has to be human now, even if he's not fully, is how he gets to decide the person he wants to be. More than most people, anyway.

He gets to decide if this man he is pushes past the bite and burn of good alcohol and into really appreciating it.

(They stop in a pub on the high street before shopping. He makes a face at almost every drink, but ends up downing two pints and a basket of chips anyway.)

He gets to decide if this man maybe dresses to the right instead of the left -- although Rose suspects this is something blokes just don't go around changing. That's probably a biology thing, right?

(Inside a store, the first pair of trousers he tries on is so tight, she can just see the outline of him underneath the zip. She blushes and tells him to try the next size up. He looks down at his crotch and back to her and his smile is so big, so embarrassingly big, that her stomach knots itself low in her abdomen and she doesn't think at all about the wardrobe room on the TARDIS, she doesn't think about anything except what that zipper would sound like as she lowered it.)

He gets to decide if he becomes the man he once was.

(At their last stop of the day, he'd bought a leather jacket. He'd shrugged, "Maybe I can be him again, too, now." It did and it didn't make sense all at once, and anyway, it was sad. Later, she finds it crumpled in the corner of the couch, tucked down into the cushions, like he'd thrown it there, and made himself comfortable, refusing to acknowledge the jacket anymore.

She wears it around after he goes to bed that night, just slightly too long, but not so baggy anywhere else to look silly. He's a lean little wanker. She wears it and it's almost like she's carrying around parts of all the men she loves, the one man she loves.

She sets it aside to return it, because this man is _new_.)

&&.

He changes his outfit four times the next morning, tearing through all the new clothes, a walking Ben Sherman advert, ripping tags off like he's claiming ownership. Slim black jumper and skinny fit corduroys, into a cardigan and almost-too-tight jeans, into plaid shorts and a t-shirt, and then back to the jumper and cords.

He's preening and his hair is perfect and he smells good, smells like alien and well-groomed human, and it's not an ache in her chest, but it's something like want.

Rose should go back to work, today, tomorrow, soon. She should go back to the shop, with its little back room passageway to Torchwood, and she should go back to her life. And she would, except this is her life now, and she has enough money to live until the end of it.

(Thanks, _Dad_.)

Instead, she sits next to the Doctor on the couch and watches as he flips through channels on the telly, all lanky grace and masculine sprawl. There's still something there, still something that has to break, but maybe they can just chip way at it. Maybe it'll dissolve on its own.

She's just zoned out when he nudges her shoulder, "Rose. Rose! This movie is about traveling trousers. Traveling trousers! Brilliant!"

Rose squints at the screen and watches as teenage American girls parade around in their outfits like the Doctor had done this morning.

"They're not even cute," Rose says. "The trousers, I mean."

The Doctor smiles and take a breath and Rose can feel it. He's going to tell a story, he's going to be the Doctor.

"I'm sure I don't have to tell you that traveling trousers are a real thing and they're not so form-fitting or polite. Take control of your legs, run you into walls, not very nice, those trousers."

A few hours later and he's fallen asleep on the couch, legs bent at the knees and feet flat on the ground. He's slumping into himself a little bit, chin to chest and tilted some. She can't decide if she wants to give him a slap, or give him a hug, and she's not sure if either of those emotions are actually for him.

When he wakes, he does it slowly, a rarity for him -- normally startled and on his feet in seconds. He goes to rub his eyes and forget he's wearing his glasses. He smashes his fingers to the lens, leaving smudges in their wake.

She doesn't hug him, but she smiles.

&&.

It's that night, their third night in this flat, in this world, in this funny little relationship, that it spills over.

She's curled up in her bed, reading a book, when she sees it on the opposite wall.

A bug.

It's not that she's afraid of bugs, she's afraid of very few things, this new Rose Tyler, it's just --

This might not even be a bug, right?

(Or it might be one of those that bites you in your sleep.)

It looked like something she'd seen as a girl, crawling across the counter while her mum made tea. And if this were last week, or last month, or last year, she'd have dealt with it herself. But now she has him here, and what's the harm, right?

The bug skitters up the wall, toward the ceiling.

"If you don't stop moving before I can get the Doctor, I'll come after you myself, and I'm less forgiving," she tilts her head up toward the ceiling and makes her voice sound commanding.

Maybe the bug had heard about her, heard about the Daleks, because that just seems to make it move faster. It scrambles into a corner.

"Stay there," she says warningly, climbing slowly out of bed, out of her room and into the hallway.

She hesitates at the shut door in front of her, the door to her spare room. The Doctor's room. She taps quietly with her nail and waits.

Nothing.

She does it again, knuckles this time, and louder.

Nothing.

She turns the knob in her hand and inches in the room, standing just inside the jamb.

"Bug," she whispers and he doesn't respond. She gets closer and repeats herself.

He's snoring softly and she says it a final time, voice slightly raised.

"Bug."

The Doctor opens his eyes blearily, "What?"

"There's a bug. In my room," she tries to keep her tone level, like this is totally normal. Like this isn't the most domestic thing that's ever happened to them.

He climbs out of bed, clad only in his boxers again. He scratches the flat of his stomach, his hair, and Rose feels her skin go warm, pinpricks ghosting across it.

She leads him into her room, keeping her eyes cast down.

(Steadfastly ignoring his feet, the high arches of them, the light dusting of hair, the short, clean toenails. She doesn't even _like_ feet, what's this all about? Doctor feet or no, she is not a hormonal child.)

He hesitates at the door, staring past into her bedroom, but she spots the bug again and grabs his hand, dragging him inside.

"There it is." She points with her free hand and tries to look concerned.

He tightens his grip around her, just for the briefest second, like she's almost imagining it, and then he squints at the bug and drops her hand.

"That, Rose Tyler, is a regular, Earth-variety spider. Not much special, except how they'll bite." He snaps his teeth down, clicking them together.

The noise makes her shiver and she almost decides she wants that spider dead. She wants to leave its little body on the small porch of her flat, to send a message. This is Rose Tyler's place and she is not to be fucked with.

Instead the Doctor walks to her night table, picks up and drinks from the water glass she'd left there. It's strangely intimate, the first time he'd had a part-human immune system and willingly exposed himself to her human germs.

(Well, the first time after that kiss -- which doesn't count as their first, she decides in a snap, still under the eyes of the other Doctor. Plus, growing from a hand, a Time Lord's severed hand, there's all sorts of regeneration -- generation? -- energy. He probably could've fought it off if she'd had a cold then.)

She turns back to the Doctor and he's just finishing the water, throat muscles working and Adam's apple bobbing, and she wants to lick at right there, bite down, but then he's pulling the glass back, wiping at his mouth with his hand.

He grabs a magazine sitting next to the table and lopes over to where the bug is. He cranes his neck and reaches up, trapping the bug under the glass and sliding the magazine between the glass and the wall. He tips the spider into the glass and It's carefully settled in the bottom now.

She follows as he walks into the living room, opening the door and setting the spider free on her send-a-message porch.

"Brilliant," she says. "Now it'll tell all its little bug friends that the Doctor's here and he's such a forgiving bloke, and they'll all come take up residence."

He blinks, something changing his face, "Ah, yes, forgiveness, such a bloody _awful_ thing, right? We should all strive not to be so weak."

The Doctor turns on his heels and goes back to his room.

&&.

Rose waits a full 20 minutes, watching the minutes tick by on the clock in the kitchen, before she goes to his room.

She's not even sure what she's going to say, but they need to have a conversation, a real conversation. Maybe something about how now it seems like everyday is the worst day of her life, and the best day of her life, and not a day at all, but a series of fluid movements only marked by his new, constant presence in her life, by the absence of time travel and death.

When she opens the door, not even bothering to knock, he's sitting on the edge of his bed, feet on the ground, elbows on his knees, and head in his hands, like he was waiting for her.

He's still just wearing his boxers, but he's pulled his cardigan on, leaving it unbuttoned, his chest bare underneath. There's a draft in his room she hadn't noticed before. It's an interesting juxtaposition, like some sort of sexy professor (-- not the first time she's had that thought about that body, but the first regarding this incarnation of it), and she's almost taken aback, almost put off enough to forget that he's mad at her.

"Isn't your race big into knocking?" He looks up at her, dropping his hands to his knees.

"Your race, too, now," and it's out of her mouth before she can stop it. Probably not the best way to start this conversation, diving headfirst in.

"Right." He fixes her with a stare, his jaw clenching after the word.

"Listen, just tell me what I should ask for forgiveness for, and I'll do it," She crosses her arms around her stomach.

It's not what she wants, this giving in. She kind of wants to get into a row, a loud one, but since she can't figure out what she'd fight about with him, this him, this seems easier.

He barks out a short laugh, "You think _I_ need to forgive _you_?"

"Well, what else would this be about? You need to forgive me for tearing universes apart, starting this whole thing. The Daleks -- " She trails off. "And now you're stuck here. And _human_."

Her breath comes out in a large exhale, she hadn't realized she was holding all that in, thought she'd buried it far enough in her conscience. Thought they could just -- forget.

The Doctor stands from his spot on the bed, crosses over to where she's standing and gently uses his hands to uncross her arms.

"Rose, I'm not going to forgive you for anything."

She sighs, "Your TARDIS, too. He has the TARDIS. I'm so sorry."

"You didn't do anything wrong."

He's still holding her hands, both of them sweating despite the chill in the air, and suddenly she's dizzy and frustrated.

"Then what is this?!" She yanks her hands away, gesturing back and forth between them. "What is the problem?"

And, ah, there it is. She can hear the row creeping around the edges of the room, waiting to strike.

"I'm trying to do this proper!" His Adam's apple bobs and this time she doesn't want to lick it, but she watches it anyway.

"Do what?"

"Be with you, be half-human, be _me_." He almost looks, fuck, he almost looks scared.

"You _are_ you, Doctor." She tries to make the word, the name, heavy, make it seem like she means it.

(She does.)

"How can you know that? I only have one heart. I -- I can die. And I have almost a thousand years of memories spinning around in a body that, that, that I can't even control."

"What are you trying to control?"

"Do you know how inefficiently humans process liquid? I'm in the bathroom every other minute, it's mad."

He sounds so frustrated that she tries, she really does, not to laugh.

"You're upset because you're spending extra time in the loo?"

He must realize how bonkers that sounds, because the smallest of smiles pulls at his mouth before he sets it straight again.

"There's more -- you wore that skirt the other day, and when you sat on the couch, Rose -- that wasn't very ladylike, how you sat, I'm sorry -- and I felt, I saw," he looks at her chest, her waist, and flicks his eyes back to hers a second later.

Now she really has to laugh, and she does, huffing out a small, amused sound.

"I thought the meta-crisis was causing some sort of existential crisis and really you're just angry that you piss too much and you're attracted to the girl you're going to spend your life with?"

He looks startled for a moment, like he hadn't expected her to dismiss his fears so easily. He ducks his head, speaks softly, "Well, I miss the TARDIS, too."

She watches him toe at the carpeting and feels a rush of warmth.

"Of course you do, and probably Donna, as well," She studiously ignores the look that passes over his face on her name -- there's more to that story than she's heard, some horrible ending she can't foresee for Doctor Donna.

She charges back in, "What I love though -- "

There's another first, the first profession of love by _her_ , to this new him. His eyes widen and she knows he caught it, too.

" -- What I love," she repeats, "It wasn't here," she sets her hand over where his second heart would be, feeling skin and the soft wool of the cardigan under her fingers, the absence of a heartbeat.

"Or here," she pats the space his sonic would've been kept.

"It was -- here." And she touches her fingertips to his temple, but that's not it, it's not enough.

She pulls her hand back, "It's here," she spreads her fingers apart and palms his face, feels his nose against her hand, feels it when he smiles before she pulls her hand away.

"This is a good one, isn't it? Better than those ears last time, that nose."

His face isn't what she was talking about, and she's sure he knows it, but she sticks up for it anywhere, the face of her first Doctor. "I liked those ears, and the nose."

"You're daft," he's smiling broadly now. "Did you know I was blond before? We could've passed for siblings, you and me. The snogging would get awkward though, for other people."

This isn't over, she knows, but it's enough for now. They don't need to talk about how she's worried he'll die, or get bored, or get hurt. How maybe he'll wake up and decide he isn't the Doctor, not anymore. They don't need to talk about all the things they could be doing, _should_ be doing, now that they have this finite forever.

There'll be time later. She casts a glance at the clock on his wall and he looks guilty.

There are six extra hands.

&&.

She sleeps in late the next morning, struggling to keep her eyes open even as she finally crawls out of bed. She hears the Doctor across the hall, he must've just woken up, too. His door opens, then the one to bathroom.

It slams into her then, the most trivial parts of the conversation the night before, his bathroom habits. She realizes, startled, that he would pee standing up, like a man. She knew he'd used the washroom before -- he had, right? Or did she just assume? -- but now, apparently, he'll get up in the morning, and go to the bathroom. Like a normal person. She puts it together, the noise of him raising the seat, a flush a few moments later, the sound of washing up. The Doctor has a dick. He pees like a bloke. He _is_ a bloke.

Her thought process is so, so fucked up.

By the time they meet up in the kitchen, she's forcibly stopped herself from thinking about his dick, and started realizing they have a little bit of a routine. First stop: the kitchen.

"What do you want to do today?" She figures he's probably itching to explore, have an adventure or something. They haven't left the flat much since they went shopping, only to pick up takeaway and DVD rentals. She's going a little crazy, too, cooped up, but it's the good kind of crazy, relaxed-on-a-holiday crazy.

"Eat a proper breakfast? Out?" He looks hopeful and she realizes they must be out of bread for toast.

"Sure, I'll even buy," she winks at him.

"I can b --" He stops, realizing he doesn't have any money. "I suppose I could rob a bank with the psychic paper. Money Inspector John Smith, eh?"

She watches him grin before she realizes what he's said -- not the crime part, that's just talking, but -- "You got the psychic paper?"

"'Course, I knew what he was going to do, my pockets are full of stuff. I haven't even looked, just emptied some drawers before we got to the beach."

"Let's save it," Rose blurts out, suddenly very excited. "Not the psychic paper, we'll come up with something for that, but the other stuff. Save it for Christmas or birthdays -- we'll know when they are now, mine at least. It'll be a great surprise!"

The Doctor practically beams at her.

&&.

By the time they've reached their table for breakfast, the Doctor has winked at no less than seven people.

He is just fucking winking at _everybody_.

"Do you have something in your eye or were you really flirting with the hostess, the cab driver and Mrs. Goodsmith from next door. She's 88, you know."

"Ah, just a baby then," and he winks at Rose.

"Seriously, what is this?" She points at his eye.

"You winked this morning, it was endearing. I thought I'd make it work for me. I'm a bloke who winks now," he ends with another wink.

"You've winked before, I'm sure of it." She flips back through her memories, but can't place one.

"Oh yeah, of course, but it was always spur-of-the-moment, fly-by winking. It's going to be a thing now, get ready, Rose Tyler." A third wink.

&&.

Two days after he'd started with the winking, he abruptly outgrew the prescription in his glasses. After an Abbott & Costello routine ("I need a doctor!" "You are the Doctor!") and a lot of teasing where she explained how closely related winking and poor eyesight was for half-human/half-Time Lords, they'd gotten him new glasses.

He'd tried desperately to keep his old frames, the ones he'd lovingly snuck out of the TARDIS in his breast pocket, but they weren't even crafted on Earth -- the alternate or the real one -- and they couldn't pop the lenses out. He'd end up with a brand new pair, thicker frames, thicker lenses, and she almost felt sad. Like they were losing a part of something already.

Then he'd dramatically whipped the glasses from his face, biting on the end of the stem and looking for all the world like a debonair scoundrel, and she'd laughed.

&&.

The weeks stretched on and suddenly it'd been almost a month since they'd arrived back here, together.

There'd been no kissing, no sex, nothing but a few lingering hugs, sweaty hand-holding, and once, at dinner, as he'd reached for the salt, a slight graze of her chest. He'd blushed furiously and she'd smiled, knocking her knee into his under the table. She wasn't counting that as a first, not as it related to her chest anyway, maybe as it related to the color of his face, though.

Work had called asking after her -- the work through the secret passageway, not the shop. And she'd consulted on a case, the Doctor hovering over her shoulder as she took down the details.

She'd been on the phone only a few minutes, with him mouthing questions for her to ask the agent on the other end, when she put the mobile down and turned on the speaker.

"I've got --"

Rose mouthed to the Doctor, "John Smith?" He'd shrugged.

"-- John Smith, a consultant visiting from -- " she made a noise of static with her mouth. "He'll be helping me on this."

"Ah, Smith, pleasure to meet you," the voice on the other end of the phone said. "Pete Tyler mentioned you'd be joining us."

"Did he?" The Doctor cocked his head, looked flattered? Maybe? Rose couldn't tell.

They solved the case out of their flat, refusing, even for all the toys in Torchwood, to go in there yet. Such a weird load of memories tied to that place.

When another case came down, just a few days later, the Doctor had taken the call himself, explained what they needed to do, and to call if they couldn't find the parts.

He hung up the phone and turned to Rose. "You know they call me Smith? That's a proper nickname. I've never had a nickname before."

"That's not a nickname, that's your name."

"But when I use that, what I _used_ that name, people called me John. This is like -- it's like mates. I can't take them traveling through space and time, but we can still be mates," he was almost just talking to himself, looking thoughtful and pleased.

"You did just tell them how to construct a very classified and advanced piece of technology to stop the whole landmass of Greenland from becoming sentient."

"Eh. I think it's mates."

&&.

Turns out, the Doctor was right: mates it was. The weekend rolled around and a few male agents Rose recognized stopped by her flat to get the Doctor.

"Can Smith come out and play, Rose? We owe him a pint for the help."

"Oi! I helped, too!" But she could already hear the Doctor behind her, lacing his trainers up.

The men had the good sense to look nervous though.

"Just us blokes tonight, Rose," one spoke up and Rose recognized it as Mickey. She gave him a wide smile -- and she was going to give him a warning, something about how they didn't know how 'Smith' could handle his liquor anymore, but the Doctor was charging past her, clearly having heard Mickey.

"Mickey, Mickey, Mickey!" The Doctor shouted, changing his voice on each version, "C'mere, you brilliant idiot!"

Rose watched as he pulled Mickey into a tight hug, not very manly, but very sincere. Mickey grinned at Rose over the Doctor's shoulder, _Look at this welcome_!

The other agents looked surprised and the Doctor released Mickey with a rough pat on the head, "Oh, me and Mr. Mickey we go way back, we worked together in --" Rose coughed right on time and the Doctor winked at her.

She tapped at her eyes, where glasses would be, and he stuck his tongue out at her.

(The next morning, the Doctor adds 'human hangovers' to his list of Worst Things In All of Space and Time. She reminds him that when he'd come in, at a quarter to 4, he'd told her, slurring and drunk, that he didn't need two hearts anymore, because she was his other heart. He adds 'sappy, sloshed rambling' to the list, too.)

&&.

There's a new routine after that, more than just breakfast. It's a routine of making routines.

Sometimes in the morning he wakes up happy and sometimes he wakes up grumpy. It's so unpredictable, in such a specific way, that she finds herself endeared and frustrated all at once.

They try their hand at normal everyday stuff, human stuff. Well, he does. She tries her hand at easing back into human life, while watching a brand new, fully grown human careen off the walls of the planet.

Video games: Forget it. The Doctor plays a thousand titles, soundtracking them all with commentary on how a race like that could be brought down properly, how they'd never die so dishonorably. His skinny fingers flying across the buttons, all knuckles and tapping. She'd had boys play video games before, but never like this, never with the talking and the movements, and how he's always a second away from losing interest. She never feels like she has to strut around starkers to get his attention.

(Although that would probably get more of it.)

Music: He gets really into The Shins, very, very quickly. He talks about how they _know something, Rose_. All these songs, they're not from Earth. Not even from this Earth. And they are definitely not to be trusted.

"Kissing the lipless?" He says, pursing his own lips. "Let me tell you -- I have kissed the lipless," He pauses just long enough to arch his eyebrows at her -- "Jealous?" -- "And it's not something you'd write a song about. A dirty limerick, maybe. But a song? Never. And Saint Simon, what a stand up bloke. Pink bullets? Where'd you find those, you suppose? Not on Woman Wept, if that's what you're thinking. Come _on_ , Rose, the past and pending? It's right in front of you!"

(She lets him into Torchwood late one night, the first time either of them have stepped foot in there, so he can use the database. The Shins come up clean. He seems put out.)

Coupons: He gets really wrapped up in coupons, Rose doesn't know how else to say it. "It's like a game, Rose! You have to figure it out! You have to figure out how you win and get biscuits for free!" When the cupboards start overflowing with those free biscuits, she begins to suspect, and takes his psychic paper.

"Not for robbing banks, not for duplicating coupons," but she's smiling when she says it.

Driving: He'd sit, anxious and fidgeting, like a complete nutter, in the passenger seat. He'd fiddle with knobs, switch the radio on and off, blink her hazard lights and crank the air. She trades in for a manual transmission and lets him drive.

Sometimes, still, he rolls the windows down and sticks his arm out, cutting hills and valleys in the air with his hand.

Home improvement: He fixes the front door, looks nice doing it. He tans like a man, the hair on his arms lightening, a burnt gold that's almost inhuman ( _is_ inhuman), and it makes his forearms look wiry and strong. When he clenches his fist around a normal screwdriver, knocking himself into the door jamb, muscles flaring under the skin, it feels like someone has knuckled her in the stomach. Or slightly lower.

There's other stuff, too, less definable, more like the quiet moments of other people's relationships. But this is Rose's relationship, with the Doctor, and it's changing every day.

She watches him watch TV, eyelids dropping closed. He squeezes them shut and pops them back open, trying to wake himself up. He rubs it at his eyes and turns it in to a rub at his nose, too, like he's trying to play it off, being knackered, like anyone is watching.

She's watching, she always is, but she can't tell if he knows.

The flat starts to look like a home, starting with clutter. Her shit is just -- all over. You live alone, you live confused and depressed, and you keep a meticulous house because it's something you can control. But when you're not alone anymore, and you're happy now, and you're Rose, stuff just starts pilling up. It's not dirty, not at all, just her stuff, spilling out everywhere.

She goes to clean it up one day and realizes his is mixed in. His button down. His trainers. His sweets wrappers. His glasses case.

The first time she curls into the couch and can smell him on the cushions, it's like something shifts in her chest. It doesn't click into place, it's always been there, now it's just making itself comfortable.

&&.


	2. Chapter 2

_The first time she curls into the couch and can smell him on the cushions, it's like something shifts in her chest. It doesn't click into place, it's always been there, now it's just making itself comfortable._  
  
&&.  
  
What Rose can't figure out -- among many,  _many_  things -- is why they're still recognizing these lines they'd drawn, still tiptoeing right up to walls, only to back down at the last second.   
  
When there's so many touches, so many opportunities (taken and missed) for physical affection, and there's just the one thing, or the handful of things, they won't do, can't do, don't do, it makes it that much bigger. It makes the hurdle seem that much higher.   
  
That they're not crossing the divide and moving things from  _slightly-too-touchy mates_  into  _people who are shagging_  starts to make her endlessly frustrated.  
  
And maybe, a little, (a lot) endlessly aroused.  
  
She gets home from visiting her mum. Normally the Doctor comes with, playing with Tony on the lawn and making something slung low and primal in Rose ache in a way that has nothing to do with fucking, except where it does. But he'd stayed home today, to write a report for Torchwood.   
  
It's not that they have jobs, or contracts, or anything so clear cut. It's just that, at regular intervals, a certain amount of money is deposited into their (now joint) bank account, and totally separate from that, they help out with global crises of the alien variety.   
  
The first thing she notices when she walks through the door to their flat (he'd hung plastic, glowing stars on the ceiling in the living room, it's his place now, too) is that it smells overwhelmingly of artificial fruit.   
  
The Doctor is sucking on an ice lolly, wearing a thick jumper, and a slouchy beanie slung low over his ears and hanging down in the back. Whether it's a nod to the weather or the snack, she can't tell.  
  
(It works on him, though.)  
  
"It is quite literally freezing outside," Rose says. "Proper freezing temperature, I mean. And you're eating  _ice_."  
  
He pulls the lolly back from his mouth, a popping sound as the suction breaks.  
  
"Do you know how slow time moves here? How slow it feels? It'll be ages before it's time to eat them again, in proper weather." He smiles at her, licks at his lips. "I like it, it's banana. Orange are the best though. I saved you one, you can have it."  
  
She's pleased he saved her something he considers the best, but confused by the implication there's only one left.  
  
"How many lollies have you eaten?" She rounds the couch to sit next to him, a football match forgotten on the telly in front of them.  
  
"Four," he looks away as he says it.  
  
"Oh, not so bad then."  
  
It's so quiet she barely hears it.  
  
"-- boxes."  
  
She squints at him, his lips stained and his tongue behind them, red like bricks.   
  
Before she has time to stop it, before she can push it down, she wonders which flavor his mouth would taste like. How cold his tongue would be.   
  
She's almost mad at him for forcing her hand, making her think about things he's clearly in no hurry to do anything about, when she decides to push it a little more.  
  
Grabbing her orange lolly from the kitchen, she peels off the wrapper slowly, strip by strip, locking eyes with him when he turns from the couch to see where she's gone.   
  
She saunters (tries to saunter) to sit next to him.   
  
Then she eats her treat in the absolute most vulgar way she can think of, licking, sucking, strategically biting.   
  
He slurps at his, clearly enjoying it, and she can tell the exact moment he notices her, because the slurping stops. She can almost hear him swallow.   
  
When there's just a third left, she brings her mouth over the rest of the lolly, sliding it off the stick with her teeth and into her mouth.  
  
His Adam's apple bobs and he wipes his hands on his pants, realizing too late they're covered in melting, cold sugar, sticky and gross.   
  
That'll teach him to make her think about snogging him, if he's not going to deliver. She'll work up to it one day,  _soon_ , kissing him proper, tongue and all, but part of her is hoping he starts it first.  
  
(Neither of them like grape. It takes a week, but she wakes up one morning and the freezer door has burst from all the lollies, spilling them onto the kitchen floor, where they'd liquified over night. There's a great, purple-y mess in the middle of the room, and although it's not a great, purple-y monster, it's starting to be enough.)  
  
&&.  
  
The next bit, it happens so fluidly, so matter-of-fact, that she barely has time to recognize it.   
  
They're up late one night, no work for a change, just a terrible old movie playing and empty takeaway containers on the table in front of them.   
  
She almost falls asleep against his shoulder, tipping her head to it just before she nods off. He shifts, brings an arm around her shoulders, and then she nestles into him, tucked under his arm.   
  
Rose is no longer tired.  
  
His hand curls around her bicep, scratching lightly, fingering the sleeve of her shirt.   
  
When she looks up at him, nearly crossing her eyes to do it, he's staring straight ahead, like he's going to disavow any knowledge of what he's doing, if she busts him.  
  
She brings the hand pinned between their bodies up awkwardly, without enough grace to make it seem natural, and then her hand is on his thigh. She scratches lightly at the rough fabric of his trousers, inching her fingers up until she feels the edge of his pocket underneath the cloth.   
  
There's heat coming from him, more than normal, and it's centered in just the one spot.   
  
She hears him ( _feels_  him) hum low in the back of his throat, shifting his hips just the slightest bit. On an impulse, Rose extends her pinky from her hand, tracing the outline of his zip before pulling her finger back.   
  
The Doctor goes still, his entire body unmoving. It makes it all the more noticeable when something under his trousers twitches, rises just the slightest bit.   
  
She's not sure who swallowed, but one of them did it audibly.   
  
The hand he's got wrapped around her shoulder readjusts, pulls up and frees itself. His fingertips skating over her collarbone and dipping lower. He walks the tips of fingers down, so fucking slowly, and outlines the top of her bra under her shirt.   
  
Just a little bit further, she could arch up, even, and he'd have a handful.   
  
Instead, he pulls his hand away, sets it back on her shoulder.   
  
It's still tough to get a look at him, but she shifts into him, under the pretense of nuzzling, and she sees he's still got his eyes trained on the telly.   
  
The delicate, girly hair, on the back of her delicate, girly arms, stands on end.   
  
She shifts back, refocuses on the movie, and slides her hand back to his zipper.   
  
This time, she traces the length, slow and deliberate, feeling him solid and warm underneath the pad of her finger.  
  
He sucks in a breath, lets it out through his nose. She pulls her hand back, resting it safely just above his knee.  
  
When the Doctor makes his move this time, he attacks from below. His fingers dipping down to tuck up under the bottom of her bra, still, inexplicably, under her shirt. He nudges his fingers up, past the underwire and meets the underside of her breast, just a thin layer of cotton between their skin.   
  
It's not so sexy as it is bold, and he withdraws his hand in a way Rose can only describe as  _cocky_. A weird adjective for a bunch of (slender, long,  _nice_ ) digits, but there it is.  
  
The way they're settled, Rose's options are limited, and so she turns into him more, her front against his side, his hand resting just above the clasp of her bra.  
  
She uses the hand still settled on his knee and slides it over, to the seam of his pants. Then she slides, slowly, slowly, slowly,  _up_. When she gets there, to where he's straining under his trousers, she cups, just for a second. A little squeeze and she pulls her hand back, turning to lay her head on his chest and refocus on the movie.  
  
(Is it that fucking traveling clothes thing again?)  
  
He takes a deep breath underneath her, she can hear him flex his hand behind her, the joints in his fingers cracking.  
  
In one deft movement, he pops open the hook to her bra -- still, she would like to point out -- under her shirt.   
  
He resettles his hand on her back.  
  
"I hate this commercial," he says low and rough in her ear, nodding at the screen. She hums in agreement, pops open the button on his trousers.  
  
He skirts a hand underneath her shirt, fingers sliding along skin for the first time all night. He leaves his hand there, curled around her ribs, thumb just extended enough to fit under her bra and nail scraping the delicate nerves there.  
  
Forcing herself to relax, Rose slides his zip down, the noise echoing over the sound of yet another advert.  
  
The Doctor edges further into her, cupping her breast, catching her nipple in the webbing between his thumb and index finger.  
  
He stills again, one quick squeeze while she works out her next move.  
  
Well, while she screws up the courage to make it, that is. The next move is pretty clear, hand moving into the space under his fly, but it almost seems -- disproportionate? Like hands in pants is not equal to hands in shirts.   
  
She does it anyway. Fingers closed together, she slides into his open zip. She hadn't meant to get under his boxers, too, but the gap was forced open by his dick, the way it was standing at attention. She can feel his hair, feel how inside his pants is apparently some sort of sauna now, and she doesn't move any further.  
  
He shifts then, accidentally brushing himself against her fingers as he moves, clears his throat. Her hand and arm twisted around now, as he settles his front to her back, their legs stretched out along the couch.  
  
And that's it, that's his turn this time.   
  
Her hand is so awkwardly trapped that she just pulls it from him, wrapping it low on her stomach and scooting back in to him pointedly.   
  
Both of his hands settles at her hips before dipping lower, fingers stretching toward the button of her trousers and undoing it.   
  
She inches back into him, can feel him hard against her lower back, but there's still not much she can do in this position and she ends up just tipping her head back into him, sighing a little.   
  
When he slides down the zip of her trousers, she gives up on two things. The first, any pretext of watching telly, her eyes slipping shut anyway. The second, that they're taking turns.   
  
Instead, she arches up into his hand, feels his fingers circle lower, sliding over damp fabric.   
  
He breathes something into her hair, a word, a sound, she can't quite make it out and almost asks after it, when his finger traces the elastic of knickers and slips under it.   
  
She loses track of moments as linear then. It's his finger making a wide arc, nearing closer and closer. It's her hips lifting toward his hand, trying to force contact,  _real_  contact. It's how slick her skin feels, warm and sticky, as her rubs at her, slips a finger inside her.   
  
The pulse of his single heart is beating the seconds out against her back, and she can feel it where his finger is, too, and he slides another to join it.   
  
Her arm winds up, before she even tells it to, and then it's reaching back, fisting in his hair as she anchors herself to him and just fucking _bucks_.  
  
She has half a thought to try and kiss him, to pull him forward and bring her mouth to his, but then he curls his fingers, twists, strokes, and his thumb is pressing down. He's set up a rhythm and her hips fall into it.   
  
When she comes, it's sudden and quiet, arching into his hand, a quiet  _fuck_  whispered as she clenches around him.   
  
He stills, letting her glide down, keeping his hand unmoving inside her. When she feels like she can breath again, feels boneless and electric, he removes his hand, wiping his fingers on the side of his shirt. She can smell herself on him in the movement, and she has a vision of him licking his fingers, eyes blazing and vulgar.   
  
He noses at the top of her head and shifts, trying to back away from her, put some space between their bodies.   
  
Rose uses the space to turn, twisting awkwardly between his legs. He groans and puts a hand on her shoulder, presumably to stop her, but she's not having it. She glances down to where his trousers are hanging open, the gap in his boxers giving her just the slightest glimpse of skin underneath.   
  
What she really wants, what makes her eyelids heavy and her tongue go dry, is to taste him. His mouth, or lower, or anywhere else. But if they're keeping things equal, she's only got one option. She hauls herself over him, pushing his legs to the floor as she straddles his legs, pausing only to get his trousers and pants down the slightest bit.   
  
She was definitely right those few weeks ago -- the Doctor has a cock. And it is  _super_  chuffed to see her.   
  
He grabs her chin, tips her head up so he can look her in the eye for the first time since this whole thing started.   
  
She grins up at him, a big, stupid, happy, human grin, and pulls her head back, looking down before she wraps her fingers around him.  
  
Whatever he felt like before, whatever he looked like before, this is normal bloke stuff now. The way he shuts his eyes, his jaw clenching -- the tension in his hips as he tries not to buck up into her fist.  
  
(This is normal except for how she's absolutely, ass over elbow in love with him.)  
  
She rounds her thumb around his tip, trying to collect a little moisture, something to create friction, but it's not enough. She pulls her hand away and he sucks in a breath.   
  
It's an impulse, how she licks her hand, it's an impulse and it's vulgar and when he lets out that breath in a soft sound like a groan, she is -- extremely pleased is something of an understatement.   
  
She sets a rhythm, trying to match the one he'd used before, the one just a skip behind their hearts, and she's biting her lip so hard, concentrating and pumping and, oh my god, this is  _happening_. He swipes a thumb across her mouth, just catching her tongue as it darts out to lick her lips and she can taste herself there, it's -- there's a sky on a planet they visited once, where the stars pulled apart, bursting like fireworks before reassembling -- it's like that.  
  
Her strokes get sloppy as his breaths start hitching, as he keeps all his sounds choked deep down in his throat.   
  
He warns her, just a second before, echoing her  _fuck_  from earlier, edging out --  _I'm gonna_  --   
  
Then he's hot and slick across her fingers, getting the zip of his jeans, the bottom of his shirt.   
  
The Doctor looks embarrassed and triumphant and  _tired_. She cleans up as best she can, using a napkin from their dinner, before buttoning her own trousers. He tucks himself back in, zips up.   
  
It occurs to her then, they never did end up kissing.   
  
It makes sense in a way. This is how they do things: time out of order.  
  
(They sleep in their own beds that night. Rose wraps a hand around her alarm clock, checking the time just before nodding off. Her skin glows pink and red under the light of the digits. It looks a little bit alien. She likes it.)  
  
&&.  
  
Rose wakes late the next morning and forgets for just a second, forgets what happened. She sees her knickers on the ground, where she'd stripped them off when she'd gotten to her room, and she remembers. That's a first across the board.  
  
In the kitchen, the Doctor is making tea, softly singing a song.  
  
She's heard him sing a hundred times since they've been here, quiet little things under his breath in words she doesn't understand, but this one strikes her as particularly beautiful.   
  
"What's that you're singing about?"  
  
(She is not going to think about the possibility that he's singing a song about her, about wanking your best mate off on a couch in an alternate universe for the first time.)  
  
"It's about how I'm going to go change my jumper, and about how I'd murder some chips right now."  
  
It's somehow less jaunty when she realizes he's trying not to forget all the languages he used to know.   
  
&&.  
  
The new things, the firsts, they come spilling out after that.  
  
The first time she yells at him for not putting the leftover pizza away.  
  
The first time he wears a tie in a half-human body.   
  
(Just a suit jacket with it, no trousers to match. "I'm not a full Time Lord anymore, Rose, no full suits. Well, maybe at the wedding.")  
  
The first time he mentions a wedding.  
  
The first time he gets sick.   
  
(Stoically marching across the flat to pour himself glass after glass of juice, crumpled tissues stuffed in every pocket.)  
  
The first time they share a bed.   
  
(The spider comes back, and he brings mates. The Doctor is half-asleep, Rose screaming at the walls. He shuts the door to her room and tugs her by the hand across the hall to his. It's clear from the pillows he was sleeping right in the middle of the bed, but he tilts his head, like he's thinking, remembering, and scoots his pillow over, leaving the side she sleeps on in her own bed empty. When she slides in under the sheets, pulling the duvet up to her chin, he nudges toward her, wrapping an arm around her waist. She backs up into him, fitting her knees against his, and they fall asleep. In the morning, they're not cuddled up anymore, but his arm is thrown out, hand wrapped around her bicep. Her foot rests against his calf.)  
  
The first time she almost kisses him -- not with the other Doctor watching.   
  
(Backed up in a corner at a pub, trying to beat the high score on some ancient arcade game. 10 quid and two hours later, he does it. Puts in DrNRose as the name for the scoreboard. She leans up on tiptoe, and gets his cheek as he whips his head back to the screen, "A bonus level, Rose! Isn't that brilliant?")  
  
The first time they  _do_  kiss.  
  
&&.  
  
It's Christmas -- the first proper Christmas they've ever had on normal time. With lead up to prepare, get a tree, buy presents, string lights.   
  
They're spending the day with the Tyler's, Rose picking out presents for everyone but Tony, a privilege the Doctor had laid claim to early in the season.   
  
There are a few gifts under the tree in their own flat, wrapped in gaudy paper and bright bows, but the most important one isn't wrapped. It's folded neatly in a corner, a blue jacket, pockets stuffed and bulging out.   
  
They'll each get to fish one thing out of the pockets, but they have to make it through the festivities first.   
  
She wears a skirt, a swishy reddish-maroon thing, in the spirit of the holiday. He wears a tie, an awful Christmas one, and those skinny corduroys. Trainers, too, of course. They're both in white button downs, on complete accident and they look like a proper, respectable couple, spending the day with their family.   
  
(That they  _are_  those things -- she doesn't know what to do with it.)  
  
When they get to the Tyler's, the first thing the Doctor does is give Tony his present. It's every piece of sports equipment Rose could possibly imagine -- and a few she recognizes from the vaults at Torchwood. It's definitely enough to spend the whole day playing outside, on the artificial grass, surrounded by the heat lamps.   
  
The Doctor juggles a football out the door, arching his eyebrows at Rose like,  _Look what I can do!_ , as Tony squeals and claps.   
  
He sticks his head in every hour on the hour, offering to help cook, clean, set the table, assess any potential threats in the Christmas crackers. She waves him off each time, but smiles to herself when Jackie comments on how helpful he is now -- helpful in a more mundane, not universe-saving sense, of course.   
  
It's nice that Jackie's come around, sort of, in her own way, on the Doctor. What's not as nice is that Jackie has taken this newfound tolerance to mad levels. There's mistletoe over every door in the house.   
  
When Rose asks after it, she regrets it almost immediately.   
  
"What makes you think that's not for me and Pete?"   
  
"Mum!"  
  
"Oh, I forget our Tony is a little Jesus Christ, immaculately conceived."  
  
" _Mum_!"  
  
Rose goes outside after that. She shows heretofore unrecognized talent with a cricket bat. She also manages to knock the wind right out of the Doctor, sending a football square to his stomach.   
  
He's on his knees, wheezing and Tony's running around them in circles, "Rose kicked him! Rose kicked him!" He's a cute little boy, Christ-like or no, but right now, Rose needs him gone. The Doctor is gasping for breath, screwing up his face like he's trying to trigger something.   
  
"Tony!" she says. "Go get the Doctor some water."  
  
He scampers off back toward the house, "Rose kicked him, Rose kicked him!" It's become a song now. That's just fucking wizard.   
  
She looks back to the Doctor, sinking down on her knees next to him, "No respiratory bypass in this model, eh?"  
  
"You've - taken - my - breath - away - Rose - Tyler," he's still gasping, but grinning all the same.   
  
She puts a hand on his face, and one on his chest, trying to get him to slow down.   
  
Before she realizes it, his breathing is steady and she's curled her fingers around his ear, nails just brushing the hair behind it. His heart beats strong and slow under her other hand.   
  
Her eyes dart across his body, making sure she's done no serious harm, and she hesitates on bringing them back up to meet his. There's a charge in the air now, the warm glow of the heat lamps nothing compared to the way her blood feels too hot, the way her skin feels, all tingles and light.  
  
When she finally gets there, drags her gaze past his Adam's apple, his chin, his nose, he's staring at her like she's saved the world again.  
  
He blinks.  
  
"And this is the way the Doctor ends, not with a bang, but with a football," he quotes (well, paraphrases) Eliot like other men quote (well, overestimate their own intelligence with regard to) Top Gear.   
  
"Nah, I couldn't take you out, take more than playing with some Earth girl to end it."  
  
His face darkens, like he's remembering something, but he blinks again and it's gone.  
  
"Would you believe -- not the first time someone's brought up my playing with Earth girls?"  
  
"That's plural, then?" Rose keeps her focus steady. This is one of those things she's wanted to get in to, since Sarah Jane, since before maybe, but was always terrified to get a straight answer on.  
  
"Just mates, Rose." His tongue presses against his front teeth, waiting, gauging her reaction.  
  
"What'd you do with those mates?"  
  
He blinks again and it almost makes her miss the winking.   
  
"Eh, the usual. Gallivanting across space and time, saving civilizations, you know, same old, same old." And wait -- there it is -- a wink.   
  
"No firsts left then? No uncharted territory?" She brushes her thumb across the hair of his sideburn, and he tips his head into her hand.  
  
"Firsts are relative, and there's always something else to explore." He's looking meaningfully at her mouth.   
  
She'd never thought of it like that -- that it's all what you make of it.   
  
She slides the hand on his chest up and around to the back of his neck. He nudges forward on his knees, leaning in.   
  
It's so different from the beach, there's no TARDIS around, no other version of him, no hurried, frantic need. She has to time to think about it.   
  
Time to recognize the way his hand fits around her hip, brushing the skin of the bone there with his thumb, heat palpable even through her clothes. Time to watch as he licks his lips, tongue darting out to leave just the slightest bit of moisture behind. It's so red, his tongue, it's almost like --   
  
"Did you eat another ice lolly?"  
  
He pulls her forward, with the hand around her waist, their chests almost touching, "Maybe."  
  
"Where did you get it? Oh my god, did you give one to Tony? He'll be bouncing off the walls, Mum's gon --"  
  
"Rose, you're stealing my thing." He skirts his other hand around to her back, presses her against him.  
  
"Yeah?" She has forgotten  _entirely_  what they were talking about, only aware of the way his chest feels against hers, his fingers like tiny points of pressure across her body.   
  
"Talking too much, ruining the moment, that's me," he tips his forehead to hers and his breath flutters, warm and cherry-flavored, across her mouth.   
  
"Mm," and she feels the vibration of her voice in the space between their lips.   
  
It's killing her not to move in, not to close the gap and snog him until he's out of breath again, panting for much better reasons, but she needs this, needs him,  _the Doctor_ , to go first. She needs proof that this is something he actively wants, instead of something he's making his peace with, stuck on this planet and stuck in this time.   
  
Just when she's beginning to doubt whether that's true, he tilts his head and meets her lips with his.   
  
Everything she didn't think about on that beach, everything she couldn't think about, too wrapped up in confusion and anger and sadness and hope, comes pouring through this kiss. His lips are warm and soft, and slightly parted already. His fingers on her back ease up, scratching lightly over her shirt.   
  
He pulls her bottom lip between his and slides the tip of his tongue out to meet it.   
  
It's -- a lot to take in.  
  
Barely thinking, she opens her mouth to his and his tongue slides further in, all hot and wet, a heated friction against her own. She wraps her arms around his neck and he slides his around her waist. They're anchored to each other now (again), but with less desperation and more liquid warmth.   
  
(This won't be the last time, it's just the first.)  
  
With a nudge of his knee between hers, the Doctor is lowering her down to the artificial grass of the lawn. She puts her arms out behind her, never breaking the kiss, and helps. A little bit of teamwork never hurt anybody, right?  
  
It's not very graceful, and not very pretty, the getting there, but where he ends up, hovering over her, propping himself up on his forearm, a leg fitted between hers, is  _perfect_. He moves his lips to her neck, licking and sucking and biting, and Rose pulls at his hair, squirms underneath him, into him.  
  
He ghosts a hand up and down her side, stopping to edge his fingers underneath her shirt, the tips of them dancing over the waistband to her skirt before heading back down and, oh, up her skirt, brilliant. She's got tights on, it's winter, after all, but he doesn't seem to mind, scratching his nails across the thin nylon as he inches his hand further up, bringing his lips back to hers.  
  
She reaches up to clutch at his tie, smiling against his mouth and adjusting the angles. She takes control, just a bit, wrestling his tongue back into his own mouth, shifting the playing field some --  
  
Oh my god, they're  _on_  a playing field.   
  
And then, it swims back into view, suddenly she can hear again, and there's Tony squealing, "She  _kissed_  him, she  _kissed_  him!" as Jackie Tyler makes the first audible gape in the history of the universe. Pete stands next to her, arms crossed, and he's the first one to speak.  
  
"I know it's off some, the universes and all, but Rose is a like a daughter to me," Pete says and looks pointedly at the Doctor's hand, now firmly up Rose's skirt.  
  
The Doctor moves back slowly, pulling away from Rose, like he's buying time, trying to formulate a plan.   
  
"We were just --" The Doctor just stops talking, mid-sentence.  
  
Rose tries to help, "Yeah, just --"  
  
Jackie closes her mouth, opens at again, "You were just snogging in the middle of a field on Christmas Day!"  
  
The Doctor finally stands, dusting his hands off on his trousers and helping Rose up. He looks back and forth between them and then back to Jackie, "Seems so. How about that dinner? That fixed yet?"  
  
Jackie looks like she's going to push it more, but Rose gives her a small smile, tries to tell her how happy she is, and Jackie lets it go. She stares at Rose's neck for a moment, and Rose is sure she has a mark.   
  
"Soon, dinner soon. Better wash up, you lot." She gestures at the white of their shirts, now dirty and wrinkled.  
  
Pete and Jackie turn to leave, pulling Tony along behind the them, and starts in again on the song, "She  _kissed_  him, she  _kissed_  him!"   
  
The Doctor stares after them before turning to Rose, "You know, I thought Tony was a bright, young lad, but he seems to have missed that _I_  kissed  _you_."  
  
"That's a first."  
  
He nudges her with his elbow and grins.   
  
&&.  
  
When they get back to their flat, they open the normal presents first.   
  
Rose bought him another cardigan, hoping for a repeat of the boxers/cardigan combo and hoping it ends with her slipping it from his shoulders. She's also bought him a couple of tubs of hair wax, and the Dummies Guide to Winking. There's a few more presents, new trainers, a long coat, but she's most excited about the last:  
  
An autographed album from The Shins, complete with creepy, foreign symbols under the signatures.  
  
"Looks a bit alien to me," she says, pointing at one of them.   
  
The Doctor squints, pulls his glasses on, looks again.   
  
"Better investigate, maybe Torchwood's file is wrong."  
  
"We better."  
  
They both look at his old jacket, wondering if there's anything in there to help, any little toys that will settle the matter of whether an American indie rock band is actually hellbent on Earth domination.   
  
She reaches for the jacket, but he stops her.   
  
"I got you proper presents, too," he gestures at the small pile under the tree.  
  
Rose opens them, suddenly pleased at the thought of him in a shop, picking out things he thought she'd like.   
  
The first present is literally five pairs of knickers.   
  
She raises her eyebrows, picking a pair up. They're mostly modest, cotton and more than just string, but it's intimate and she feels herself flush, looking up at him, waiting for an explanation.  
  
"You know humans actually dream about shagging? Never had that before," he tilts his head thoughtfully. "I keep having this dream where I tear your knickers off, thought I'd better be ready to replace them, in case it's a premonition."  
  
She -- does not know what to say that. She maybe wants to try it now, shove her skirt up and let him have at it, but she really wants to pick from the jacket, wants to see what they're working with.   
  
"That's -- thoughtful, thank you." And she almost says fuck it, almost pushes him down in the blinking lights of the Christmas tree and fucks him, but she holds back. There's all the time in the world now (this world), they can shag under trees all year, if they want.  
  
The rest of her presents, they're all around the same theme.   
  
A new skirt -- "Dreamt about hitching that up, putting you on a counter."  
  
A pair of leather boots -- "Thought you could leave those on."  
  
Assorted bath products -- "You smell really good."  
  
That somewhere between their first kiss on a beach, fooling around on a couch, and their first proper kiss this afternoon, he'd been thinking in depth about shagging her makes her want to conquer time travel once more, just to go back and tell past Rose that she's not a nutter, that it's there, this undercurrent.   
  
The last present, the only one left under the tree, is small and square and when he hands it to her, he almost looks shy.  
  
It's a fob watch.  
  
"Nothing in this one, but it -- it means something to me, figuratively," he says, and she thinks sadly of the one buried in her desk, all that time she spent angry at him, when she should've known.   
  
"Thank you," she says, lifts up to give him a kiss. He returns it slowly, drawing it out, until she pulls back, tells him against his mouth that there could be an old sonic in those pockets.  
  
He jerks back and stares at the jacket, "You think?"  
  
"Dunno, better find out."  
  
He makes her go first, and she doesn't even pretend like she wants to protest. She shoves her hand into the front right-side pocket and pulls out --   
  
"Coral?"  
  
The Doctor's face lights up, "TARDIS coral!" He turns it over in his hand a few times, "Oh, that's gonna take a while. Let's see what I've got!"  
  
He reaches to the inside pocket, fiddles around, pulls his hand back triumphantly to reveal -- celery.  
  
She thinks he's going to go back for the jacket, try again, but he seems content to follow the rules they'd made up, an item on important days.   
  
(Rose is not above suggesting that the third Tuesday of every month, as well as every single bank holiday is an important day, but they'll get there.)  
  
He takes one last look at the coral, something like hope in his eyes, and turns to Rose, eying her legs.  
  
"Ripping tights, that wasn't in my dream, but," he solemnly holds up his hand, "Time Lord's privilege." He lunges for her, grabbing her around the waist and pulling her to the floor.   
  
&&.  
  
The thing about having all of London and all of Earth at her disposal, is there's plenty of places for Rose to get into trouble, and plenty of places to shag.  
  
The thing about having a Doctor at her disposal, is that Rose finds them all.  
  
&&.


End file.
